


Need you to need me

by suicidein_angeleyes



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Relationship, Just smut, M/M, Praise Kink, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, kinda sorta, that's all there really is about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23345521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suicidein_angeleyes/pseuds/suicidein_angeleyes
Summary: Geralt has a need that he's been ignoring for as long as he can remember.Jaskier is not particularly inclined to allow that to stand. If he pushes just right, he can Geralt all that he needs and more.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 518





	Need you to need me

**Author's Note:**

> So, after binging the Netflix series, playing Witcher 3 like a mad person, and reading the books, I come to the Witcher fandom bringing porn. Honestly, there's no excuse for this other than porn, and there's honestly nowhere near enough bottom!Geralt in the world. 
> 
> The is unbeta'd so, all mistakes are my own. I also very much abused the word 'need' in this fic.

Geralt has known these… _Moods_ to happen occasionally, and for the most part, he had been able to avoid them, locking himself away from the world, throwing himself into a hunt, into isolation to fight a baser need that he’s in thorough denial of. 

Need is too strong a word because witchers do not need. They do not feel. And, that was so, so much easier to convince himself of before Jaskier had so firmly planted himself in Geralt’s life and made himself absolutely impossible to ignore. And, it made the itch burning under his skin just as impossible to avoid. He’s worn down from the last fight, actually managing to have avoided the worst of the creature of the week’s guts, considering he had cleaved it in half with one blow in his fierce need for a fight. Jaskier had been on him the second he’d stepped back into the inn, stopping in the middle of his song to approach the witcher. The crowd, who had initially been charged with displeasure, backing away at the golden-eyed glare, the witcher’s air of undeniable upset keeping them at a distance. 

The demands for attention are brushed aside as he strides through the inn towards the room the bard had managed to procure for the night. With the monster slain, he quite simply wants a bath and sleep. Jaskier doesn’t stop his talking, though his lute is drawn over his back as the door closes behind them both. Geralt works to remove his own armor as Jaskier begins to heat water to fill the tub to the side of the room. 

It says something that Geralt doesn’t put up an argument as Jaskier approaches him, lute set to the side as he reaches to set armor to the side to be cleaned, careful with the swords every Witcher carries. And then he proceeds to begin stripping Geralt with an efficiency of a man on a mission. The fact that he doesn’t put up a fight with the unnecessary care being given to him lights something curious in the bard's gaze. Jaskier never stops talking through all of it, muttering about how often Geralt has certainly come out of fights far worse for wear and yet he’s still managed to leave his hair a matted mess, clothes completely ruined. Of course, he would take that over injuries to the other man, but nonetheless, do creatures just aim for his hair?

If Jaskier notices anything odd about the nearly tame compliance, he doesn’t find the new occurrence necessary to comment on aloud. He just strips Geralt down to his small clothes, grumbling about idiot witchers, no common sense or self-preservation, how is he supposed to bloody well change the public opinion of him if he goes off and gets himself killed, charging into battle without half the details. And, of course, the ungrateful townsfolk who looked at a witcher like he’d gone through the town kicking kittens instead of slaying the beast that had been laying waste to travelers along the main road and making trade nearly impossible. Ingrates, the lot of them.

Geralt just huffs out a quiet noise, stripping out of the undergarments to move to the bath as water is poured over the edge and a plume of steam rises from it. Geralt catches Jaskier before the bard can step away, large hand catching the back of his neck to pull him into a slow kiss that cuts off the rambling words. There are few ways to really silence the bard, not successfully. When he’d first taken him to bed the witcher had thought, just maybe, fucking him senseless into the mattress could silence his rambling. He’d been wrong. 

Keeping in mind that Geralt doesn’t mind when Jaskier is reduced to babbling curses and begging for anything, everything, more, more, please gods more. But if his mouth is not thoroughly occupied or taken with deep slumber, he’s very rarely quiet. A kiss will do it, pressed together firmly and leaving him blinking for a moment as Geralt releases him to step into the bath. And, even then, he gives Geralt a long, considerate look as blue eyes sweep over him. He still manages to find his words eventually, slower now as he appears more caught in his own thoughts. 

Fingers drag through his hair, urging Geralt to shift forward and allow Jaskier better access. Wetting the white strands with a cup from the water, working through the mass of tangles with patience and determination. More gently than Geralt deemed necessary, long white locks curl at the ends as they pull from the knots. All the while, he recounts his day at the inn while Geralt had been off with the village huntsman to track down whatever beast it had been this time. 

“And honestly, how many of them in their lowered voices offer to rescue me, like your sworn companion on the roads is forced. I do not see any chains that you’ve been dragging me about with, do you? Honestly, the nerve of some people,” though the words are huffed out, the movements of his hands never cease and don’t pull more than necessary. 

Hair is smoothed away from his face, a sharp scent of soap that makes his nose twitch followed by a stinging at his temple, a cut he hadn’t even realized was there. Jaskier murmurs an apology to the barely-there inhale of air that acknowledges the sting, dipping a hand in the water to wipe soap away from broken skin before moving back to combing soap through his hair. 

“Okay now, dunk,” words come with a firm press to his shoulder, and he allows himself to sink beneath the water’s surface, feeling Jaskier’s fingers scrub through his hair, eyes closed against the cloud of soap and suds that are released in the water. A tug to his hair, clean of most of the soap, pulls him to the surface again, taking in a quick breath as fingers pull the hair away from his face again. 

Now, though, those same fingers are firm and they keep tugging until Geralt looks up at him. His throat bared, the wooden rim of the tub pressed into the back of his neck, and gold eyes only study Jaskier carefully. Pupils dilating slowly to leave only a thin ring of the telling color, sure that if Jaskier were going to slit his throat, he would have done so long before now. 

It’s easy to forget that the bard has never seen a mood like this strike the witcher, as long as they’ve traveled together on and off over the years. His blue eyes are curious and intense, watching Geralt with the intensity that is usually reserved for a beast or ballad that needs writing. 

Water from wet hair drips to the floor as Jaskier’s hands flex slowly, chewing on his lower lip. “You are… Uncommonly compliant tonight,” a slow pause, massaging the base of his skull, a bit like a cat as Geralt simply lifts a brow at him. Jaskier considers him slowly, blue eyes narrowed just slightly in thought before allowing his head to tip forward, dragging a stool forward to sit, dragging a warm cloth through the water slowly with soap to move over his chest and shoulders, clearing away the blood left over. His fingers lift with the cloth, hesitating over the hollow of his throat before the cloth moves over the tender skin and Geralt doesn’t flinch away. Jaskier exhales shakily, fingers trembling slightly, though he might not notice without enhanced senses. “What do you _need_ , Geralt?”

The question, asked just like that, draws a slow shudder from the witcher, exhaling through his nose as his eyes open slightly. The cloth against his throat is soft and warm, Jaskier’s own heat seeping through it, and Geralt can hear the bard’s racing heart with him so close against his back. The witcher inhales slowly, taking in the heady scent of Jaskier; there’s underlying arousal that is almost always there, though it’s stronger now, tinged with confusion and concern that batter the arousal with a certain amount of guilt. Geralt breathes out, head shaking slightly and making to stand. 

“Food, and sleep. I need food and sleep and we’re leaving in the morning,” it’s a good plan of avoidance and denial, except that Jaskier plants both hands on his shoulders and pressed down. Geralt could throw Jaskier’s grip easily, but something keeps him in his place, allowing the bard to hold him there for long moments, grip loosening in slow degrees. “Jaskier.” 

“None of that, Witcher,” there’s a sharp tone to Jaskier’s voice and Geralt’s head tips back of his own volition to consider the serious blue eyes focused on him. The hands resting on his shoulder shift slowly to draw through his hair again, one dragging under his jaw to keep Geralt’s gaze on him, ignoring the odd discomfort of the position and the way water must be pooling at his feet and soaking his pants. “Food and sleep and blessed silence may work on other days, but not tonight. At the very least admit you need _something_ and I can attempt to put together whatever it is that’s lulled you into some sort of compliance.” 

Silence reigns in the room for long moments as Jaskier’s fingers draw along his throat and Geralt lets him. There’s a subtle tension in Jaskier’s stance, a betrayal of the confidence that bleeds through his tone. A sigh drags from Geralt, frowning at him. “I… _want_ something.” 

There. Want sounds so much better than need, and he can work with that. 

A nearly startled sound escapes Jaskier, shoulders rolling. “Well that’s a start, isn’t it? If you want something, we can---” 

“Ignore it, and the urge will pass. As it has always passed,” this time, Jaskier’s hands do not prevent him from standing, water pouring off his skin as he steps over the side of the bath to reach for a towel left to the side. Jaskier makes a sound as Geralt rubs his skin briskly, before moving on to his hair, squeezing out the excess moisture as he walks away.

A hand grips his arm, turning Geralt on a heel, Jaskier’s fingers rougher than he ever expects from playing his lute. And Geralt allows himself to be turned, brows lifting at the treatment. Jaskier refuses to be dissuaded. “Honestly, Geralt, you look about ready to burst from your skin. If you need… _Want_ something, there is no reason you should stand about looking miserable because _it will pass_.” 

Words are cut off as Geralt kisses him again, cupping the back of his neck, fingers curling through the fine hair he finds to press slowly into the kiss. It’s nearly gentle, though the kiss comes with enough force to drag Jaskier against him. The press of bodies leaves nothing to the imagination, and Jaskier gives a quietly startled noise as Geralt’s erection presses against him through the thin fabric of the towel and Jaskier’s own trousers. The bard responds in turn, pressing into Geralt, gripping his arms to stay close, fingers moving restlessly and tangling in white hair. Kisses Geralt like he could keep doing so forever, and Geralt would let him.

This urge ( want, need, unfaltering desire ) to be taken had been ignored for decades, mainly through steadfast avoidance and physically exhausting hunts. But Jaskier makes avoidance impossible, and here, now, with him insisting that Geralt is worthy of his wants and needs, body pressed to his with willing enthusiasm, he _wants_ to stop ignoring the need. 

His lips drag from Jaskier’s lips to his neck, teeth fitting under the hinge of his jaw and Jaskier shivers all over, his own cock hard in his pants as he presses against Geralt. He could distract him with this. Take him to bed under lips and tongue and forget the question for now. But he finds he doesn't want to. “I _need_ you to fuck me,” his words are low, barely a growl against the skin he’d bruised possessively, brushing his thumb along the hinge of his jaw on the other side. Jaskeir’s body jerks against him, blue eyes wide and dark as he shifts back to look at Geralt seriously. Geralt drops his forehead to rest against the bard’s, breathing slowly as he does. “I _need_ you to take me apart and put me back together on your cock,” Jaskier exhales harshly, gaze wider still as he blinks at Geralt. Idly, he congratulates himself on robbing the boisterous bard of words. “Jaskier, I _need_ you.”

The last bit is quieter, shifting to drag his forehead against Jaskier’s temple, breathing in his scent, confusion still there, but arousal spiking through it, rising with each statement of need that escapes the witcher. His breath hitches before fingers tangle again in Geralt’s hair, harder this time, taking possession of his movements like he’d done in the bath to draw the witcher’s gaze to him. He could break the bard’s hold on him, could break the bard entirely if he so wished, but he doesn’t. 

He allows Jaskier to tug his head back, gazing at him seriously. Sharing breaths and space as Jaskier studies him. Geralt’s not sure what the bard is looking for in his gaze, but after long, long moments he appears to find it, and like what he finds. He leans into Geralt, catching him in another slow kiss, though he keeps control of it, pulling back when Geralt would press into his space. 

“On the bed. On your stomach and leave the towel elsewhere,” Jaskier’s blue eyes are deep and dark as he breaks the kiss to meet Geralt’s gaze, slowly untangling fingers from his hair. A swap to Geralt’s ass earns him a growl, but he does move to the bed as Jaskier steps away. Geralt watches him as he assumes the ordered position, head pillowed on his arms as Jaskier mumbles to himself. He could make out what the bard was saying if he were so inclined, but he leaves him to the murmured words, just listening to his voice as the bard curses his own disorganization and their conditions for packing things in a hurry. But, he returns in easy time, stripped to undergarments, though they’re as wet as his trousers were and cling to his body and the clear outline of his cock. 

When the still partially clothed bard straddles his thighs before behind, Geralt makes a questioning noise, shifting slightly, but a hand on his shoulder keeps him in place. 

“Stay, just as you are,” his hands are warm, sliding down Geralt’s back in a steady motion, settling at the base of his spine. “I’ll give you anything you need. You’ll take it however I choose to give it.” 

The lid of a jar is removed and oil drizzles down the center of his spine. Geralt twitches, but Jaskier doesn’t move the hand from his back until the jar is corked again. Then his hands sweep up his skin slowly. Geralt groans slowly as skilled fingers delve into the muscles of his back, digging under his shoulder blades and the sides of his neck to find knots Geralt hadn’t even realized were there. A huff of a groan pulls from him as Jaskier shifts back and the oil is worked slowly into Geralt’s lower back, before moving on to the muscles in his ass. 

He gives out a frustrated huff as Jaskier skips down his body to massage his legs, first down one then up the other. 

Geralt is shuttering a little as Jaskier gets back up to his ass and takes the time to massage the muscles there, slowly making his way between the cheeks to rub slowly over his hole. He can feel Jaskier exhale, his thumb pressing in slow increments until the ring of tight muscles is penetrated. “Geralt,” his voice is low, and the witcher just hums a response, barely responding. “Geralt.” 

This time his name comes with a sharp smack of his ass, just enough to sting as he shifts, glaring over his shoulder. 

“What?” 

The growl makes Jaskier smile, leaning over his body to kiss his shoulder, sweeping hair away from the skin. “Are you sure, witcher?”

Geralt grunts beneath him, hips pressing back against the digit barely pressing into him, body rolling slowly against him. “Yes, Jaskier,” he pauses then exhales, gold eyes dilated to leave them nearly black as he looks over his shoulder. “ _Please_.” 

“Fuck, Geralt. You are,” Jaskier exhales shakily, unable to finish the statement, a steady tremble in his hands again as he pulls his thumb away with a grunt from Geralt. He ignores it, scrambling down the bed, between Geralt’s spread thighs to spread his ass before his tongue is there, dragging over his hole in a hot drag to press against the ring of muscle, working against him slowly. He grips Geralt’s hips as he works against him, listening to the witcher moan, wishing he could see his face, but feeling the muscle twitch and relax as he stabs his tongue further into him. Jaskier groans in return, the sound vibrating through Geralt’s body as he rolls his body against the sheets beneath him. Jaskier adds a finger alongside his tongue, stretching the muscle slowly for him. 

Geralt’s hands ball in the sheets, tugging at them as he swears, pressing his face into the rough pillow. “Jaskier, fucking bard, _fuck me_.” 

Jaskier spends a few moments longer putting his tongue to exhaustive and dedicated use before he pulls away. “Not like this. Roll over.” Geralt follows the order after a moment as Jaskier moves to avoid getting kicked in the process (some of his less coordinated moments have left Geralt not quite as lucky). When Geralt settles again, white hair spread beneath him and watching Jaskier with sharp golden eyes, the bard shifts between his thigh again, leaning up to kiss him slowly. “Much better.” 

The kiss breaks as he leans over the witcher, examining him with serious blue eyes. Then he leans down to kiss him again quickly before drawing back down Geralt’s body. “Jaskier, don’t _tease_ …”

Jaskier hushes him, not unkindly, shifting to making room for his shoulders between Geralt’s legs. “I need to prepare you more thoroughly than I can on my tongue. And, I very desperately _need_ your cock in my mouth before the night is over, so I feel I can multitask at the moment,” his brows lift a little, dragging his tongue up the length of Geralt’s cock, making his hips twitch and settle. “And, if you happen to finish in my mouth, I have personal experience that says you’ll have plenty of energy to do so again while I fuck you.” 

Geralt’s breath hisses out as Jaskier’s mouth descends on him, more than familiar enough with his body to play him like his lute. Even the oiled fingers that massage his ball are familiar, hips arching into the wet heat surrounding his cock to give him more room. He knows that as skillfully as Jaskier takes him, he tends to gag until he’s had a chance to adjust more, his throat warm and more easily welcoming. So he takes it slower at first, thrusts under careful control. 

Jaskier nudging one of his legs further apart and over his shoulder to allow him to introduce an oil-slicked finger to his asshole throws that plan out the window. He can’t help the way his hips thrust up into Jaskier’s mouth before pressing back against the finger that sinks into him without resistance. Jaskier pulls away slightly, stroking Geralt’s spit slick cock with his free hand as he watches one finger then two sinks into him easily. “Fuck, Geralt. You are godsdamned amazing,” he’s mesmerized with the way his fingers sink repeatedly into Geralt for long moments but he does pull his gaze away eventually to swallow down his cock with enthusiasm. He pushes past his gag reflex, swallowing until his lips press to the base of Geralt’s cock, no small feat, and uses the distracting pressure of his throat working to slide a third finger into Geralt. 

He’s panting when he pulls away, tears at the corner of his eyes as he attempts to catch his breath. Spit and precome wet his lips, making messy connections to Geralt’s cock as blue eyes drag up his body. The witcher’s hands are curled in the sheets, panting as he watches Jaskier. The bard swears, shifting to scramble up the bed and kiss him, spreading the mess he’d made of himself between their chests as his fingers curl. Searching and _finding_ the spot inside that makes Geralt gasp and buck under him, fingers digging into his arms. 

When he’s on the reverse of this, Jaskier takes four of Geralt’s thick fingers to take his cock comfortably. Three, if he’s in an exceptional hurry, and they have no plans to travel the next day. He’s debating if he could get away with adding another finger as he presses the three firmly into Geralt, spreading slowly, but fingers are curling in his hair, gold eyes catching the light in the room to nearly glow. 

“If you do not fuck me _now_ , bardling, I will pin you down and ride you, and you will not finish until my stamina has been thoroughly rung out,” the threat is growled now, his body clenching around Jaskier’s fingers to make him gasp. It’s not an idle threat; witcher stamina is something they tested and Jaskier has no chance to compete with that. 

So, Jaskier swears and shifts to push upwards, fingers slicking his cock with oil before moving to hitch Geralt’s hips over his thighs. Geralt assists, back arching to allow Jaskier to find the position he likes before he’s moving. He grips the base of his cock to line with Geralt’s hole before he’s sinking into him slowly. Jaskier swears, gripping Geralt’s hips as he bottoms out, panting as he manages to stroke unsteady hands up and down his thighs. The witcher tightens his thighs around Jaskier’s hips, pulling him in deeper, and the younger man falls forward with a groan, hands on either side of Geralt’s head. 

He pants out a soft laugh, head shaking as he leans down to kiss him. “If you keep that up you’ll finish me before I have the chance to be impressed by that witcher stamina.” 

Geralt shakes his head, fingers curling into Jaskier’s hair. “Don’t care. _Fuck me_.” 

The shudder produced by the words drags through both of their bodies, and Jaskier gasps to roll his hips, body still curved over Geralt’s to meet his eyes with barely any space between them. It allows him to watch with curious intensity as Geralt’s eyes go lust hazed, fingers digging into his arms, blunt nails dragging down his back as Jaskier shifts his hips to thrust harder. Finding a rhythm, he shifts back a little, up on his knees for leverage as he uses a grip on Geralt’s hips to pull him back against the thrusts. 

“Gods, you are… Fucking amazing,” he barely has the breath to speak, but he manages, his voice low and rough, words sounding punched out as he pushes into tight heat. “I have no idea which god I pleased to deserve such a sight, but the world is surely bereft for not seeing your beauty.” 

Beneath him, Geralt’s skin has taken a flush, breathing heavily as his body works back into each thrust, gripping one of Jaskier’s wrists, purely for something to hold on to. If questioned, he’s sure the color staining his cheeks is arousal instead of the litany of words falling from the bard’s lips, some of which is turning increasingly filthy ( _'Gods be damned, I could live and die watching my cock disappear into you’ and ‘I’ll finish so deeply inside you you’ll smell me for weeks’ and ‘Next time you can ride me so I can just watch you take your pleasure on my cock’_ ). And the words that truly curled heat through him ( _‘Beautiful, amazing, so fucking good, I don’t deserve you’_ ) and made his back arch and curl fingers tighter against Jaskier’s skin. 

His hips roll with a gasp to feel the full length of Jaskier’s cock as it drags in and out of him, a hitch of the bard’s hip dragging against his rim with sparking pleasure. His cock is hard against his stomach, dripping pre-come in time with the thrust and he gasps out the bard’s name as a hand wraps around him, squeezing to stroke in time with the thrusts that rock his body on the bed. He clenches, muscles tensing as his body rolls, making Jaskier stutter on his words and swear, back bowing over him. 

“Fuck, Geralt I can’t, you’re so… Fuck!” 

The sharp scent of Jaskier’s come hits him, even mixed in so thoroughly with his own, and the bard still over him, panting as he works to support himself without collapsing on top of him. 

“Fucking gorgeous,” the words are murmured as he sways over him, blue eyes dark and deep as he leans down to kiss him slowly, before shifting to pull out, a shiver of oversensitivity working through him. Geralt grumbles as Jaskier pulls away from the kiss, but he’s working down his body with fingers still curled around his cock to stroke slowly. “I could compose epic ballads of your body beneath mine and none would come close to you,” Geralt grunts but isn’t given a chance to argue as Jaskier slides between his legs, tongue dragging up the length of his cock again and his fingers press into Geralt’s ass again, loose and slick with his own spend. “I can see why you enjoy this so much. I thought maybe it was scent, knowing your scent is so deep in me,” Jaskier licks him again, three fingers making dirty noises as he thrust them into Geralt’s body, curling to press inside him and make him jerk beneath the bard. “But there’s something… Baser. Possessive,” he exhales, blue eyes still dazed and dilated as he shifts to take Geralt’s cock in his mouth properly, fingers still pumping into him as he takes him all the way down, swallowing to do it again. He groans out his pleasure as Geralt’s hands make their way into his hair, thrusting up into his mouth and down onto his fingers, caught between the sensations. 

With Jaskier’s fingers filling him, and his mouth and tongue making quick work of his control, Geralt doesn’t bother to hold out. His hips jerk up hard, feeling Jaskier take the motion easily as he swallows and then he’s pulling away just slightly to coat the bard’s tongue and throat in his spend, and Jaskier allows it, using his free hand to stroke him through it, swallowing as much as he can. Geralt’s fingers in his hair pull him up again until fingers slip from his body and he can settle over him to share a slow, sloppy kiss. Jaskier groans to arch into him, knowing they’ll need to clean again no matter what and not caring as messy fingers drag through Geralt’s hair. 

Sometime later, after a rinse in tepid water, Geralt had sat still long enough for Jaskier to braid his hair carefully away from his face, and he had allowed himself to be pulled into Jaskier’s grip with his back to the bard’s chest. Lips press to his shoulder as calloused fingers trace lines of scars over his chest and stomach, scratching idly through chest hair affectionately as he hums quietly. 

And, Geralt feels… Good. Content. Something settled in his chest instead of resignation. Easy trust.

Lips move from his shoulder to the back of his neck, exhaling in preparation to speak, the pulse against Geralt’s skin speeding slightly. “Geralt,” a soft grunt is received in response and Jaskier sighs to continue. “What I said, before.” 

“Which part?” 

Geralt can feel the heat that creeps over Jaskier’s skin, and he has a fair idea of what the bard is thinking of, but he enjoys the idea of him saying it again. Out of the heat of passion and sex. Jaskier squirms a little, letting out a breath. “About next time?” A hum, slightly questioning. “About you riding me for your own pleasure, Geralt. I just, well,” he pauses, apparently searching for words, and Geralt allows him. “I know you made the demand if I did not get moving, but I do not expect anything like that next time if it’s not what you want. Or, even expect there to be a next time, if you don’t want that. You said need, and I’ve never quite seen you in such a state before. And, I am more than willing to satisfy that need, but I also would not wish anything upon you that---”

“Jaskier,” Geralt turns as he speaks, shifting until he’s on his back, brows lifting as Jaskier blinks at him and Geralt waits until he’s sure the bard’s full attention is on him, gaze serious. “ _Next time_ , some time, I would very much like to ride you until you cannot stand it anymore,” Jaskier gapes at him for a moment at an apparent lack for words. Geralt turns again, dragging the bard’s arm around him again to hold him in place.

“Geralt you cannot just say things like that and roll over to sleep like it’s not something worth discussing! You think I’ve not rubbed camomile on your lovely bottom and not considered it and now you’ve presented me with such lovely ideas. I am only human, that much blood rushing south is bound to cause--- Fainting spells! And then what would we do?” 

Geralt sighs, very slowly. “Jaskier.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Shut up,” the words are affectionate but firm, not moving from his position, but he does tighten his grip around the bard’s wrist slightly. “Until I have the energy to shut you up because it would not be comfortable for you to sleep with a gag all night, and it might impair your breathing.” 

Jaskier exhales against his back drawing a hand to lay over his slowly beating heart, pressing lips to his skin, enough that Geralt can feel him smile. “There are far better situations to impair my breathing,” Geralt huffs a growl and Jaskier laughs softly. “Shutting up, shutting up. Good night, dear witcher.” 

“Good night, bardling.”

**Author's Note:**

> Toss some kudos to your author, and nudge some comments my way if you're feeling it.


End file.
